


Beautiful Minds: Outtakes 1: How Would You Know?

by Soledad



Series: Beautiful Minds [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M, Outtakes, beautiful minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeframe: Set during BBC Sherlock’s 3rd season<br/>Summary: Season 3 AU one-shots, set in the Beautiful Minds universe. Reading “Iceman & the Coffee Boy” and “Convergences” isn’t required but could be helpful to understand the allusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Minds: Outtakes 1: How Would You Know?

**Author's Note:**

> INTRODUCTION
> 
> “Outtakes” is a series of semi-independent one-shots, taking place during Season 3 of BBC’s “Sherlock”. It uses the settings of my “Beautiful Minds” universe, which means that a great number of Whoniverse characters feature in it – in very different functions. There’s no TARDIS, no Doctor and no aliens. The Torchwood Institute is a renowned research lab owned by the Holmes family. The Toclafane were an eco-terrorist group. UNIT is an international anti-terrorism force. Jack Harkness isn’t an immortal time traveller but a former freelance CIA agent with dual citizenship, left behind by his bosses for dead when he became too uncomfortable for them.
> 
> Ianto is Mycroft’s illegitimate son, adopted right after birth by his maternal uncle, so that Mycroft didn’t even know of his existence until he turned nineteen – a fact that Sherlock has somehow missed to realise so far.
> 
> Seasons 1 and 2 of BBC Sherlock happened relatively unchanged in the BM’verse, save for Tosh and Ianto’s presence. Season 3 will be a tad different, mainly because Mary has been replaced and my head canon about the Holmes family background has been thoroughly Mofftissed. 
> 
> Lines of dialogue you may find familiar have been borrowed from the episode “The Empty Hearse” and belong therefore to Mark Gatiss.
> 
> To say more would be telling, so you’ll just have to read and find out. ;))

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**OUTTAKES 01 – “HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?”**

Ianto is one of the very few people who’ve always known that Sherlock was alive.

How could he not? He helped his father in the careful planning of the fake death and the following disappearance of his wayward uncle. And he helped to oversee the surveillance of Sherlock’s activities while deconstructing Moriarty’s web.

It’s all the more ironic that Sherlock, who’s always been so proud of his observation skills, still hasn’t realised their family connection. Granted, Ianto has no physical likeness to Mycroft – he comes after his mother and is a Jones through and through – and he used to work in the Torchwood Institute, where Sherlock wouldn’t set foot if his life depended on it, and later on the Torchwood estate, helping to restore the archives that had been severely damaged by the terrorist bombing. But someone who could allegedly recognise a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb should have been able to recognise the family traits in his own nephew.

Especially as the rest of the family is aware of Ianto’s identity.

Of course, Sherlock hasn’t spoken to the rest of the family for at least a decade, either. And Ianto is a Holmes (well, _half_ a Holmes), too, which means he’s as good an actor as his father and uncle. Still, it is funny, and he can’t wait to see Sherlock’s mortal embarrassment when he’d finally realise the truth.

He might get that chance very soon. After two years of absence, Sherlock is finally back, bruised and battered after his recent adventure in Serbia, recovering in the old, Tudor-style manor house just on the outskirts of London, eager to return to his old life. And Ianto, too, has come up from the Torchwood estate, partly to give Mycroft some moral support after his most recent loss and partly to help him planning the necessary steps to prevent the planned terrorist attack.

It’s inevitable to have more personal contact with his uncle, and from up and close Sherlock would inevitable deduce his true identity. Sooner or later, their secret will be out in the open; and Ianto doesn’t know if he truly minds it or not.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the moment it hasn’t happened yet, though. Right now, Sherlock is sprawled in a chair, pretending to read the morning paper, while Ianto, in his shirtsleeves but still wearing his waistcoat, is carefully shaving him with a cut-throat razor. Sherlock’s own hands still aren’t steady enough, after the beating he’d suffered in Serbia, and him being alive is still a secret, so Ianto has to help out.

Sherlock _could_ use an electric razor, of course, but he wouldn’t. Neither of the Holmes brothers would, as they both have sensitive skin. That leaves Ianto, whose hands are steady enough for the difficult task and he isn’t so easily irritated that he’d be tempted to actually cut his uncle’s throat.

Even if it _is_ a close call. Sherlock is still his annoying self, and he still gets off on raising his brother’s hackles. And Mycroft gives as well as he gets; they’re really like two toddlers fighting in the sandbox sometimes. Ianto withstands the urge to roll his eyes.

“You _have_ been busy, haven’t you?” Mycroft asks casually, without looking up from the file he’s leafing through. 

He’s clad in his light brown, herringbone tweed three-piece suit he usually wears at home, with a Navy blue tie; it’s hard to imagine that he’s gone to Serbia just a couple of days ago to bail his brother out of some serious trouble.

Nonetheless, that is the truth, though aside from Ianto probably two other people know about it.

“Quite the busy little bee,” Mycroft adds, chuckling.

Sherlock folds the newspaper and tosses it onto a nearby trolley, clearly annoyed by the apparent lack of appreciation for his results.

“Moriarty’s network,” he explains, somewhat unnecessarily, as Mycroft (and, by extension, Ianto, although Sherlock still doesn’t know _that_ ) were aware of his every step during his absence. “Took me two years to dismantle it.”

Now Mycroft does look up from the file, his expression wary. “And you’re confident you have?”

His voice is full of doubt, and Ianto secretly agrees with him. If anything, the disaster with the Toclafane has taught them how hard it is to dismantle even a single eco-terrorist group determined enough to cause as much damage as possible. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind of Sherlock’s own calibre. It’s only reasonable to assume that he’d have contingency plans… even for his contingency plans.

Sherlock, however, _is_ confident that he’s succeeded – which is nothing new.

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” he says in a bored tone.

“Yees,” Mycroft drawls, still not entirely convinced. “You got yourself in deep there... with Baron Maupertuis,” he looks into the file to check the name; not that he really needs it, but he’s a perfectionist. “Quite a scheme.”

“Colossal,” Sherlock agrees, while Ianto is working on his chin.

“Anyway,” Mycroft closes the file with a smirk. “You’re safe now.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound as if not to disturb the razor scraping around his chin. It _could_ be interpreted as an agreement, but Ianto isn’t entirely sure it is.

“A small _thank you_ wouldn’t go amiss,” Mycroft continues with a hideously false smile and Ianto cringes because he knows what kind of reaction that would bring out of Sherlock and because he hates when his father gives himself away so carelessly.

It only ever happens with Sherlock or with their mother, and the results are always the same: more insults. Surgically fine ones from Lady Holmes and downright mean ones from Sherlock, whose answer is now as predictable as ever.

“What for?” he snorts in a way that’s clearly intended to hurt. It does.

“For wading in,” Mycroft replies with what seems to be an indifferent expression; only that they both know it isn’t.

So does Ianto who makes a step backwards to resist the temptation to slit the throat of his ungrateful uncle. He and Mycroft may have their problems; it’s not easy to make up for his nineteen most formative years when they didn’t even know each other. But he’ll be damned if he let Sherlock spout abuse much longer.

Mycroft notices his reaction and the forced smile plastered on his face deepens just a little, becoming more genuine.

“In case you’d forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu,” he adds nonchalantly, but Ianto can hear the underlying bitterness in his voice.

Because true as it might be that Mycroft doesn’t do field word _now_ , he used to do a lot of it once, when he was a great deal younger. Until he walked into a trap and ended up captured and tortured. Until his kidneys got so damaged that one of them had to be removed. He’s been living with only one kidney ever since – field work would be an unacceptable risk for him now, and while he doesn’t actually _miss_ it, he’s embittered by the fact that the choice has been taken out of his hands for good.

He’s never mentioned this to Ianto, of course. But Anthea decided (several years after Ianto had entered their lives) that he needed to know _certain_ things, and so she told him about them. Not everything, of course; Ianto is quite certain that his life wouldn’t be enough to learn everything that’s there to know about his father. Only some basic things he needs to understand.

Ianto is also quite certain that Sherlock would know about this particular limitation of Mycroft’s – unless he had one of his cocaine-clouded phases at the same time – but he doesn’t make the mistake to expect consideration from his uncle.

Not for Mycroft, anyway.

As expected, Sherlock sits up in the chair with a painful groan (and is it really petty that Ianto doesn’t feel sorry for him?) and glares at his brother angrily.

“ _Wading in_? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.”

Ianto would give an arm to be able to do just that (although active participation seems even more attractive at the moment) but his father recoils indignantly.

“I got you out!” he reminds his brother.

“No,” Sherlock snaps. “ _I got me out_. Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

Mycroft only rolls his eyes at the childish accusation. “Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything.”

And it would have got him killed, Ianto knows. A tightly ordered lifestyle and regular workouts are the things that keep his father alive and kicking, despite his weakened health, the insane hours he works on way too little sleep… and his eating disorder. He wouldn’t have survived a torture session of his own in the hand of the Serbians in his condition.

Ianto wonders if Sherlock knows that – and if he cares at all.

Sherlock’s next comment clearly shows that the answer is a resounding _No!_ , to both questions.

“You were enjoying it” he accused.

Mycroft doesn’t even blink, although the accusation _must_ have hurt. Especially considering the personal risks he took to get his brother out.

“Nonsense,” is all he says. He doesn’t even sound angry. Just tired.

“ _Definitely_ enjoying it,” Sherlock repeats mulishly, and Ianto is suddenly overwhelmed by the wish to have seen him beaten up by the Serbians.

 _He_ might have enjoyed it, he shamefully admits to himself. Sherlock has a gift to bring out the worst of most people, and Ianto is no exception, despite the fact that in all the years they’ve known each other his uncle never as much as acknowledged his existence.

He really can’t blame Sergeant Donovan for hating the man.

Even Mycroft loses his patience marginally in the face of such stubborn idiocy. HE learns forward in his chair, his eyes growing cold with indignation.

“Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going ‘under cover’, smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The _noise_ ; the _people_ , the _smell_?

Just like his brother, Mycroft was born with heightened senses. He just used to have them better under control – until the operation and the following drug therapy messed him up chemically. The ever-present risk of sensory overload is one of the reasons for his solitary lifestyle. The reason why he uses the _Diogenes Club_ as his last resort.

It is also the reason why he still smokes. The nicotine itself, plus the small rituals involved, help him to focus on just one or two of his senses. Plus, this is the only vice he shares with Ianto, who’s been smoking, not excessively but regularly, since the age of sixteen,

Fathers and sons can bond over the oddest things; especially as football isn’t an issue. Ianto plays rugby (in the rare times he can) and prefers beer – both of which irritate Mycroft’s admittedly snobbish sensibilities.

Sherlock leaves the question unanswered which in itself is an admission. He painfully sinks back to lie down in the barber’s chair again, allowing Ianto to resume his work.

“I didn’t know you spoke Serbian,” he says, and this is as close to a _thank you_ as Mycroft will ever get. 

Mycroft leans back in his chair, too, minutely relaxed, now that the confrontation is over – for the time being.

“I didn’t,” he says simply. “But the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words,” he shrugs. “Took me a couple of hours.’

Coming from anyone else, this would sound terribly smug and arrogant. Coming from Mycroft, it’s the statement of the simple truth. He may not have Sherlock’s eidetic memory (that forces Sherlock to delete things he finds irrelevant), but he has an instinctive understanding not only for the roots and structure of languages but also the cultural background and peculiarities that come with them. It is a unique talent not even Sherlock can compete with, despite the dozen or so languages he also speaks fluently.

A talent that he, unfortunately, failed to pass down to Ianto.

“You’re slipping,” Sherlock comments, but unlike before, there’s no real poison in that comment. In fact, there’s almost something like fondness in his tone. _Almost_.

Mycroft notices it, too, and smiles tightly. “Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all.”

Personally, Ianto doubts that Sherlock would ever become anything else than an overgrown toddler with a hang to histrionics, even if he reaches the age of eighty. But it’s not his place to share his opinion. He is still playing the role of one of Mycroft’s employees. It has been Mycroft’s express wish that Sherlock should come to a realisation of his own, and Ianto was raised to respect the wishes of his elders.

Besides, the fact that Sherlock Holmes, genius extraordinaire, hasn’t connected the dots yet – due to mere ignorance – is far too amusing to ruin Mycroft’s joke. He doesn’t get one on Sherlock’s expense all too often as it is.

Ianto finishes his work, then steps back and checks the results. Sherlock’s hair is now dry and curly again, his face baby-smooth and near spotless, save for the bruised cheeks and the dark rings around his eyes. Ianto nods in satisfaction and collects the shaving paraphernalia.

“We’re done, sir,” he tells Mycroft. 

He rarely addresses his father differently, even if they’re alone. This is what they’re both comfortable with. At the beginning Mycroft sometimes called him _my boy_ , but Ianto didn’t react well to _that_. So it’s ‘sir’ and ‘Ianto’ now, and that works well enough for them both.”

Mycroft gives him a distracted nod; his over-active mind occupied with the next twenty or so steps already. “Fine,” he says. “Now for some decent clothes.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As if she’d been waiting for her keyword (which she most likely has), the door opens and Anthea, who’s settled on that name for some reason, walks in, holding up a dark suit and a white shirt on a hanger for Sherlock to examine. It’s one of Sherlock’s old suits that has been hurriedly fitted to match the changes in his physique, wrought by two years of harsh undercover life, but the shirt is obviously new.

“I hope this will be appropriate, sir,” she says, addressing Mycroft rather than Sherlock.

Mycroft nods. “It will do. Thank you, my dear.”

Sherlock snatches the hanger from her and, completely un-self-conscious, begins to change, as if the others weren’t there at all. He tucks the new shirt into his trousers, threads the belt through the loops, and then looks at himself in the large mirror on the wall with a frown. As if his appearance would be the most important thing in the world.

For someone who considers his body mere transport, he sure as hell is picky about his clothing, Ianto thinks.

Mycroft begins to grow irritated again. “I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock,” he says. “Is that quite clear?”

Sherlock ignores him in favour of posing in front of the mirror and frowning at his mirror image. “What do you think of this shirt?”

Mycroft needs visible effort to restrain himself and frankly, so does Ianto. Sherlock’s cavalier attitude towards the very real threat against London is hard to bear. Especially after just having lost Jack.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft grounds out through gritted teeth.

Sherlock glances at him impatiently. “I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart…”

Ianto rolls his eyes in the background and sends a wave of mental gratitude to his long-dead mother for having passed down the no-nonsense, down-to-earth Jones nature to him. Inheriting the Holmes’s hang to dramatics would be a burden he doesn’t quite feel up to carrying.

A quick glance at Anthea reveals that she’s feeling the same. She might seem inscrutable to outsiders, but during the years of their acquaintance Ianto has learned to read the minute signs in her face.

“One of our men _died_ getting this information,” she says coolly, the unspoken addition _not everything is about you_ hanging clearly in the air between her and Sherlock. “All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.”

“And what about John Watson?” Sherlock asks, putting his jacket on.

Anthea looks dangerously close to hitting him, which, considering how many ways she knows to kill a man thrice her size with her bare hands, isn’t a risk one should ignore. She worked with Captain Jack Harkness on keeping Mycroft safe and sane for many years. She doesn’t take the casual dismissal of the man’s death kindly. Not even from Sherlock.

Hell, _especially_ not from Sherlock!

Sherlock doesn’t realise the danger he’s in, should Anthea lose her tight control even for a moment, but Mycroft does. He gives Anthea a hard glare before turning back to his brother.

“John?” he repeats languidly.

“Mhm,” Sherlock is still oblivious, which is strange. Usually, he’s quicker to pick up signs, even if it’s about people, not forensic evidence. Perhaps he’s suffered more damage than just the beating. They had tracked him, most of the time, but it wasn’t _always_ possible. And he always knew how to escape surveillance 

Perhaps he was even on drugs again, for a while.

“Have you seen him?” Sherlock asks, his mind still on Dr. Watson.

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft replies sarcastically. “We meet up every Friday for fish and chips.”

And now Ianto needs all his considerable willpower _not_ to roll on the floor, howling with laughter, cos _that_ ’s a mental image that will haunt him for a _very_ long time: his stiff, impeccably clad father sitting with John Watson in one of those cheap little places preferred by blue-collar workers and poor students, gingerly picking out fish and chips from a paper bag smeared with frying oil. Complete with the ever-present umbrella hanging on the back of his chair.

Withstanding the urge is made infinitely harder by the fact that his father gives him, just for the tenth of a second, a barely perceivable wink.

Sherlock scowls angrily; he doesn’t like being made fun of, especially not in the presence of people he summarily calls Mycroft’s minions. Mycroft enjoys his moment of victory; he’s only ever human, after all. Then he becomes serious again.

“I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course,” he gestures to Ianto. “The Watson file, if you don’t mind, Mr Jones.”

Ianto opens the safe and takes out the thick manila folder with reports and surveillance photos of John Watson. _Of course_ his father kept an observant eye on the good doctor. John Watson is the only true weakness of Sherlock; the man he’d risk everything for. The man he’d died for... well, sort of.

Had Detective Inspector Lestrade or dear old Mrs Hudson been killed, Sherlock would have grieved, would have plotted revenge – and executed it with extreme prejudice – but eventually, he’d gone on with his life. Ianto isn’t sure that Sherlock would survive the loss of John Watson. Not with that incredible mind of his intact anyway. 

Mycroft knows that, too, which is why he did his best to keep the doctor out of harm’s way in the last two years. Why he’s so afraid about the upcoming reunion.

Cos Mycroft wouldn’t survive the loss of _Sherlock_ , either. Ianto has only known his biological father for a mere six years, which is far too short a time to understand the true depths of the Holmes brothers’ complicated relationship of co-dependence, but he knows that there are exactly two things Mycroft Holmes would sacrifice everything for: his brother and his Work. In that order. And though Mycroft has shown enough small signs of paternal fondness for him, Ianto knows that – compared with Sherlock and the Work – he’ll always remain expendable. They simply don’t have enough history between them for things to be different.

Not that it would truly bother him. He likes Mycroft well enough, and the man impresses the hell out of him, but his true family will always remain Tad and Mam and Rhi, that stupid tosser Johnny and their kids. He had a happy enough childhood until Mam’s death – certainly much happier than it would have been, had the Holmes family knew of him and claimed him – and whatever happened to Ifan Jones afterwards, he’ll always remain Ianto’s Tad.

Even if, technically seen, the man was his uncle. At least there _was_ some blood relation. He was always closer to his Tad than to his distant Mam, sinking deeper and deeper into her depression with each passing year.

Sherlock, in the meantime, has been leafing through the contents of the folder and is now glaring at the latest surveillance photo – the one of Dr Watson with that godawful moustache – in mild shock. Clearly, this is the first time he’s seen it.

“You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?” Mycroft asks, alarmed by the ramifications.

Sherlock is still glaring at Dr Watson’s moustache. Ianto can’t really blame him. That’s the ugliest piece of facial hair he’d seen in a very long time. How _she_ can stand it is beyond him.

“No,” Sherlock finally answers distractedly. “Well, we’ll have to get rid of _that_.”

“ _We_?” Mycroft echoes in amusement.

“He looks _ancient_ ,” Sherlock declares with obvious distaste, closing the folder and dropping it onto Mycroft’s desk. “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.”

“You won’t be _wandering_ anywhere, with anyone,” Mycroft corrects. “Officially, you’re still dead. You’ll have to work from _here_.”

“No,” Sherlock says empathically. “I need my own environment to be able to think properly. I need Baker Street. I need _John_.”

“You won’t find him in Baker Street,” Mycroft tells him. “He isn’t there anymore,” at Sherlock’s shocked surprise, he shrugs. “Why _would_ he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”

“ _What_ life?” Sherlock returns arrogantly. “I’ve been away.”

Ianto always envied his father’s ability to roll his eyes without actually _doing_ it. This time is no exception.

“You should have read the reports more thoroughly, brother dear,” is all Mycroft says. “John has moved out a year ago. Baker Street is yours now; yours alone.”

“The more reason for me to return,” Sherlock has recovered from his shock and firmly pushed the 'John' problem in the back of his mind. “I’ve got things there I need. Notes. Photos. Contacts.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft says with a condescending smile. “Your ‘homeless network’. How quaint.”

“They are _useful_ ,” Sherlock returns. “They can go unseen where your minions would be spotted in no time. And they’re loyal to their own. I used to be one of them, and they know that.”

“Don’t we all?” Mycroft returns cynically; then he sighs and gives in. “Very well, little brother. You may return to Baker Street, if that’s what it takes. But not alone. I’m afraid I must insist to send Mr Jones with you.”

“Him?” Sherlock measures Ianto with a brilliant, piercing glance. Ianto gives him his best I’m-dealing-with-an-idiot smile. “One of your drones, isn’t he? Do I know him?”

Ianto pretends to be offended. “I can’t believe you’ve deleted the memory of me, sir. Angelo said you’d never forget really good coffee.”

Sherlock glance rakes over him again, and Ianto can almost see him sweeping through his Mind Palace to match the hint with the face. Ianto’s mind is similarly organised. They both learned the method from Mycroft, after all – with twenty-some years in-between.

“Oh!” Sherlock finally says as realisation dawns. “I do remember you. You were the new barista at _Angelo’s_ – for a short time anyway,” he turns his glance to his brother. “But why would you hire a barista? You only ever drink tea.”

“A bad habit I’ve failed to break him out of so far,” Ianto explains with the same bland smile. “But I’m working on it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyebrows deepens. It’s unheard-of that somebody would allow himself such levity when dealing with Mycroft – somebody save the late Captain Harkness, that is, whose disregard towards authority was legendary. He wonders about the relationship between his brother and the young Welshman… and fails to find the necessary clue because the neat Mr… Jeeves, was it?... is surprisingly hard to read.

Smoker, obviously; the fresh ground rests of high-quality coffee around his cuticles and the slight callous on the web of his thumb aren’t surprising, either. Even if no longer a professional barista, he _would_ provide Mycroft’s staff and guests with his excellent coffee. The holster under his sharp suit is well-concealed but clearly recognisable for Sherlock’s observant eyes. The callouses on his right hand reveal that he regularly practices on the shooting range, too, so the weapon isn’t merely for the show. Calloused fingertips speak of long hours spent at the computer; an old-fashioned desktop version, not a laptop… and, unlike Mycroft’s uniformly-clad other minions, he’s wearing an aubergine shirt with a fancy silk tie. His tiepin is shaped like a sword – actually, didn’t that tiepin once belong to Mycroft? – and is not only actually gold but also contains a miniature surveillance camera.

“So, you’re Mycroft’s ninja butler, then?” Sherlock asks with a sneer.

The young man’s reaction – or rather the complete lack of it – is very disappointing. He doesn’t even shrug, just keeps giving him that bland smile that doesn’t reveal anything. Which, in itself, is very telling. Few people could ever withstand the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes.

“My reasons for hiring Mr Jones are my own, brother mine,” Mycroft says. There’s some ill-concealed amusement in his tone that irritates Sherlock because he can tell that both Anthea and Jeeves – or Jones? – are privy to a secret he doesn’t know.

He _hates_ not knowing thinks. So he makes a promise to himself that he’ll figure out what they’re hiding from him. It shouldn’t take long, even with Mycroft involved

“Fine,” he announces haughtily. “Keep your irrelevant little secrets. See if I care. I’ve got more important things to do right now.”

“That, dear brother, is one of the rare occasions when I completely agree with you,” Mycroft replies coolly. “Which is why I took the liberty of sending Mr Jones to Baker Street to clean up the place a bit. I’m afraid Mrs Hudson treated the flat like a shrine. She didn’t even dust there in two years, saying that you wouldn’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock agrees; then he frowns at his brother. “You knew I’d want to return to Baker Street.”

It’s not a question.

“Naturally,” Mycroft replies with one of those pinched smiles of his. "You forget how well I know you. But enough of the idle chit-chat. You’ve work to do; and time is of an issue.”

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll find you whatever you need. That’s what I _do_ , isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope so,” Mycroft doesn’t seem particularly reassured, and it irritates Sherlock. Doesn’t the meddlesome git know how good he is? “I’ll be in touch.”

“If you have to,” Sherlock snaps dismissively. “Now, where is it?”

Mycroft pretends that he doesn’t understand. “Where is _what_?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes because really, must Mycroft be so deliberately thick? “You _know_ what.”

“I believe, sir, your brother means _this_ ,” Jeeves, Jones, or what the hell his real name is, reappears in the doorway, holding Sherlock’s Belstaff coat neatly folded on his arm. He now shakes it out and helps Sherlock into it; he even pops the collar for him. Very observant.

“Welcome back, Mr Holmes,” he says.

Sherlock pulls the collar tips into a better position; not that it would make any real difference, but he can’t let Jeeves get too comfortable around him.

“Thank you,” he glances at his brother and adds sarcastically, “bud.”

Mycroft’s only answer is that not-quite-eyeroll he’s so ridiculously fond of. Really, he should widen his repertoire; it’s long overdue.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They leave the house through the back door, once reserved for the personnel (and still used by them, though their numbers have been considerably lessened ever since Father’s times, due to Mycroft’s solitary lifestyle). To Sherlock’s surprise, there’s no sleek black Jaguar waiting for them in the parking lot.

“We’ll take my car,” Jeeves… Jones… whatever tells him. “It’s less noticeable. We don’t want to draw any undue attention.”

For a change, Sherlock finds himself in complete agreement. He doesn’t want to announce his return publicly, not yet. The car is a neat, dark blue Audi, the kind driven by many young men with a solid financial background. There’s nothing remarkable about it, except its almost clinical neatness... it’s a lot like its owner, actually. But Sherlock doesn’t doubt that the engine has been replaced with a much more powerful model than the original. That’s standard procedure with Mycroft’s minions.

“I could drive,” he offers, actually eager to test what the modest-looking car is capable of, but Jeeves flat-out refuses.

“Sorry, sir, but this is _my_ car and I don’t want my insurance fees skyrocket to the Moon,” he says unapologetically as he slides behind the steering wheel. “If you’d get in…”

Sherlock gets in – what else can he do? Jeeves turns out to be a good but careful driver; they reach Central London faster than Sherlock would have expected and pull up in front of 221B Baker Street. There’s light in the flat on the ground floor; Mrs Hudson is obviously still up, despite the late hour. He can’t see the flickering light of the telly, though, so she’s probably baking, or doing some other nonsense belonging into the category of “housework”.

Dull.

Jeeves opens the door with his own key (presumably the same copy Mycroft has had made for himself to be able to show up at Sherlock’s uninvited), and they go upstairs. The living room of the flat Sherlock used to share with John for almost two years is empty and dark. Jeeves goes to the window and closes the curtains before switching the lights on. 

Sherlock takes a look around; everything seems more or less the same as it used to be. His scientific equipment, thoroughly cleaned, awaits him on the kitchen table. The black-sprayed bison’s skull on the wall is still wearing its headphones. The bright smiley face, spray-painted and seamed with bullet holes, is still on the wallpaper and Billy, the skull, is still sitting on the mantelpiece, under the mirror.

His old case files, notes and other paperwork, however, have been neatly stacked in cardboard boxes and piled up in the corner. A second glance at them reveals that they’ve been neatly labelled, based on their content.

“Your work?” he asks, and Jeeves shrugs.

“I was training as an archivist at the Torchwood Institute. Besides, I couldn’t really leave it to Mrs Hudson or Dr Watson, could I? They had no idea that you might need the stuff yet; and they were too devastated to deal with such mundane things.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. Both John and Mrs Watson are ridiculously emotional beings; their judgement is often clouded by sentiment. It was better to have one of Mycroft’s robots deal with such things. The fact that Jeeves is apparently a trained archivist lets hope that he might actually find what he needs to start with the Work.

“Fine,” he says. “If you’ve packed all this, you can also find everything for me, I presume. I need the following things…

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Less than an hour later, they’re both standing in the living room, peering at the wall behind the sofa.

“London,” Sherlock muses. “It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained.”

Ianto doesn’t answer; partly because it’s certainly true and partly because he realises that Sherlock’s mostly speaking to himself. His uncle, now wearing a red dressing gown over his clothes, steps onto the sofa – with his shoes still on, which makes Ianto cringe – and begins to stick up maps, notes and paperwork, continuing to think out loud.

“Sometimes it’s not a question of ‘Who?’; it’s a question of ‘Who Knows?’,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?” Ianto doesn’t deny that he’s fascinated. This is the first time ever that he can watch how his uncle works.

Sherlock pins the photo of a man in his late twenties or early thirties, with a shaved head, sitting on a park bench eating a sandwich onto the wall, eyeing it warily.

“If this man cancels his papers, I need to know,” he says.

Then he picks up the next photo, that of a woman with a dog on a lead walking through a street market.

“If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know,” he continues sticking up pictures of people and adding crosses and other marks to the pictures and the map underneath it.

“Why?” Ianto asks quietly. He is getting the feeling that he’d learn something very important, soon.

“There are certain people – they are markers,” Sherlock explains. “If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up – like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

“And how do you know if any of them behaves in any way suspiciously?” Ianto asks. “You’ve been away for two years. You’re not exactly up-to-date anymore, are you?”

At this very moment Sherlock’s phone makes a _ping_ sound, announcing an incoming text message. He opens it and grins like a shark.

“Actually, I’ve just been updated with some much-needed data,” he says. “My homeless network never sleeps.”

And he sends the new photos directly to his laptop. A moment later the printer on his desk comes alive and starts printing them out.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“All very interesting, Sherlock,” Mycroft says on the next evening. “But the terror alert has been raised to Critical.”

The brothers are sitting opposite each other in front of the unlit fire in the living room of 221B. Sherlock is still nursing his swollen nose, nearly broken by an enraged John Watson just a few hours previously. With his free hand he’s moving a piece on the chess board between them on the coffee table.

“Boring,” he declares. “Your move.”

Mycroft glances down to make his move. Ianto, hovering half-forgotten in the background, correlating date on his iPad, can see the hidden tension in his father’s features. And if he sees it, he’s sure Sherlock can see it, too. Which is probably the reason why Sherlock behaves so nonchalantly.

“We have solid information,” Mycroft insists. “An attack _is_ coming.”

“ _Solid information_ ,” Sherlock snorts. “A secret terrorist organisation is planning an attack – that’s what secret terrorist organisations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.”

Mycroft clearly doesn’t see the humour of the matter. Neither does Ianto, to be honest. Not after Canary Wharf. Not after having been forced to have the plug on Lisa’s life support machines pulled. Terrorist attacks have gained a whole new meaning for him after Canary Wharf; the whole matter has become deeply personal. Sherlock should call himself lucky that he wasn’t even in London at the time.

“An agent gave his _life_ to tell us that,” Mycroft says slowly.

“Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done,” Sherlock replies blithely. “He was obviously just trying to show off.”

The temperature in the room drops abruptly at least ten degrees. Mycroft appears to stop breathing entirely, his expression frozen and almost painfully blank. Ianto knows he must interfere, lest his father might say or do something he’d regret.

“I really don’t think you should speak of Captain Harkness in that manner, sir,” he says, the warning in his voice so unsubtle that not even Sherlock can overhear it. “He _was_ a show-off, yes, but never when it came to his work, which he always took _very_ seriously. And he was in the anti-terrorist business long enough to actually _know_ what he was talking about.”

“Protective about the good captain, aren’t you?” Sherlock sneers. “Fallen for his considerable charms, have you?”

“If I had, it wouldn’t be your business, sir,” Ianto’s voice is calm, even and ice cold. If Sherlock hasn’t figured out the truth yet – which can only be explained by his demonstrative disinterest in his brother’s private life – Ianto will be only too happy to leave him in his misconception. Unlike his father, _he_ doesn’t have a reputation to lose.

In the meantime Mycroft has recovered from the low blow unknowingly dealt to him by his brother and moves his knight without really caring what he’s doing.

“Any sign of those markers of yours behaving suspiciously?” he then asks, adding it as an afterthought. “Your move.”

Sherlock reaches out and moves his piece after a brief glance. “No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer.”

“I _really_ hope you’re right,” Mycroft says softly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m right, when have I ever been wrong?”

Ianto briefly considers offering him the list but decides against it. For _now_.

“It’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced _Lonely Hearts_ ad,” Sherlock continues. “Your move.”

Mycroft glances down briefly before raising his eyes to Sherlock’s again. “I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “I _am_ on the case. We’re _both_ on the case. Look at us right now.”

Mycroft suppresses a sigh and makes his move, only for Sherlock to make _his_ in quick succession.

“Checkmate!” he announces smugly.

A brief flash of anger flickers across Mycroft’s face. “Oh, bugger!”

Sherlock leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. There’s an unholy gleam in his eyes that makes Ianto wonder briefly if his uncle has returned from his two-year-long crusade against Moriarty’s web with all his marbles intact.

“Can’t even handle the mentioning of a broken heart,” Sherlock crows. “How _very_ telling!”

Knowing for a fact that his uncle doesn’t know shit does not lessen Ianto’s urge to hit him. Hard. But again, Sherlock often has that effect on people. Ianto reminds himself that he’s a Holmes, too – at least partially – and that his father probably wouldn’t appreciate fratricide committed on his behalf. Does killing one’s uncle count as fratricide?

Mycroft reacts to his brother’s teasing with his usual, pained patience.

“Don’t be smart,” he says wearily. Sherlock pulls a face.

“Oh, if _that_ doesn’t take me back to happy childhood memories,” he continues in falsetto, as if imitating a little boy’s voice. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock. _I’m_ the smart one.”

“Well, some things cannot be denied,” Mycroft replies in cold confidence. “I _am_ the smart one – and it’s not likely to change with the passing of time.”

Ianto can almost hear the penny dropping in his own head. Most people are awed by the eccentric genius that is Sherlock, but Ianto always suspected that – in his own nebulous, understated way – his father is every bit as brilliant. Perhaps even more so. _Somebody_ had to nurture those excellent abilities in a young Sherlock, and that somebody sure as hell wasn’t Lady Holmes.

Ianto can count on one hand the times he’s met his paternal grandmother in the last six years, but those rare times were enough to realise that she isn’t the nurturing type, no matter how biased she is with Sherlock. Which means that his father, barely more than a child himself, must have practically raised Sherlock.

Which, in turn, makes Ianto eternally grateful for the fact that he was adopted by his Tad and raised in a simple, loving Welsh family. He doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of childhood his father and uncle must have had.

Sherlock must be having similar thoughts because looks off to the side reflectively.

“I used to think I was an idiot,” he mutters.

“ _Both_ of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies with a mirthless grin; then, turning to Ianto, he adds as an explanation. “We had nothing else to go on ’til we met other children.”

Ianto can imagine how well _that_ must have gone. He isn’t a Holmesian-grade genius (for which he thanks his Maker every day), but his freakishly good memory and his tendency to organise things around him in a tightly ordered manner had brought him in enough weird looks and downright hostility in school to have a vague idea what these two must have gone through. 

At least _he_ was fairy strong, even as a child; playing rugby helped, too. What could _Mycroft_ probably have done against the bullies? Tried to scare them off with his death stare? In Ianto’s experience _that_ doesn’t have much effect on school bullies.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says darkly. “ _That_ was a mistake.”

“Ghastly,” Mycroft agrees with a shudder. “What _were_ they thinking of?”

Sherlock pretends to give the matter some thought. “ _Probably_ something about trying to make friends.”

Ianto bits the inside of his cheek. His wildest imagination wouldn’t be enough to see the Holmes brothers trying to make friends with _anyone_. His father has old family associates, like Commodore Sullivan, colleagues that he keeps at arms length, trusted employees like Anthea or Tish Jones who’d do _anything_ for him. Neither of those could be considered as _friends_ , though.

He also has Ianto, of course, but their relationship is complicated and hard to define – it can’t be called a friendship, either.

Sherlock, of course, has Dr Watson, which is the result of Dr Watson’s stubborn refusal to be scared away by Sherlock’s erratic behaviour – a fact that surprised everyone, even Mycroft. It’s questionable that their friendship would survive Sherlock’s return, though. Men like Dr Watson don’t take betrayal kindly. 

Ianto can understand that, but he’s worried about Sherlock’s possible reaction, should Dr Watson refuse to take him back.

“Oh yes. _Friends_ ,” Mycroft says, probably worrying about the same thing. “Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.”

Sherlock looks at him closely. “And you don’t? Ever?”

Mycroft makes that not-quite-eyeroll thing again. “If _you_ seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what _real_ people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.”

Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of him and looks at his brother in a way that’s hard to interpret. Or perhaps isn’t. Not if somebody knows them as well as Ianto has come to do by now. Well, knows _Mycroft_ , at least.

“Yes, but I’ve been away for two years,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft raises the Eyebrow of Superiority™. “So?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a... goldfish.”

To fill the empty place where Sherlock used to be, presumably. It’s a logical assumption, but it also shows how colossally Sherlock has failed to understand his brother. In a manner it’s understandable, of course. A considerable part of Mycroft’s time and energy has always been devoted to keeping his baby brother safe, and Sherlock is self-centered – or probably naïve, or both – enough to believe that there’s nothing else.

Would he give more than a fleeting thought to Mycroft’s private life beyond the efforts to keep him away from his own, Sherlock would long have figured out who Ianto really _is_. Or what Captain Harkness was for Mycroft, beyond being one of his senior agents and his chief bodyguard. But he doesn’t, and thus his arrogance leads him to mistaken conclusions.

Mycroft is clearly aware of this because he shoots Ianto a not-quite-smile before turning to his brother. “I’m not lonely, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and looks closely at him, with an intense expression on his face. “How would you know?”

The words are spoken softly, with deliberate cruelty, and Mycroft does stiffen for a moment, because there is _some_ truth in his brother’s comment. He never minded being different and didn’t see his voluntary isolation as a bad thing… until he learned about Ianto’s existence.

Struggling to be an acceptable father to a son who didn’t even _want_ to become part of the Holmes clan and whom he can’t publicly acknowledge for a number of reasons – one of those being the concern for Ianto’s safety – has made him painfully aware of his own social shortcomings. Ianto suspects that his father has only realised what he’d missed in his own lonely youth by watching _him_ live his life and interact with people. That even a Holmes can have some sort of normalcy if not hamstringed by family expectations.

Expectations that Mycroft has absorbed as a child already; they made him a solitary person, living in his ivory tower. Expectations that Sherlock has rebelled against, ending up on the streets, damaging his own brilliance with mind-altering drugs. Expectations that Ianto was saved from, thanks to Ifan Jones who took in the newborn baby of his sister as his own.

Sherlock, smugly content to have scored the last point in this particular discussion, flails his legs over the table in front of him and stands up.

“Rest assured, Mycroft,” he says in a somewhat condescending manner that clearly must be genetic with all Holmeses. “Whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre.”

And with that, he stakes out of the living room to go down to Mrs Hudson – still recovering from her initial shock of having him back – to commandeer some biscuits.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Oh, that was very helpful,” Mycroft mutters angrily. Ianto gives him and amused glance.

“ _Goldfish_ , sir?” he asks, referring to one of his father’s previous statements.

“As apt an analogy as any, don’t you thing?” Mycroft replies.

“It makes me wonder whether I should be amused or insulted,” Ianto says lightly.

Mycroft frowns. “I wasn’t speaking about _you_. You’re…”

“… much slower than your average Holmes,” Ianto interrupts because he knows 221B is under constant surveillance and not even Mycroft’s trusted staff knows about his true identity. “So is Anthea. Doesn’t that make _us_ goldfish, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft snorts. “You do have the potential. Yes, you were handicapped by your mediocre education, but once you’ve unfolded your abilities to full capacity…”

Ianto interrupts again because it’s an old argument between them; one that isn’t likely to be solved any time, soon.

“May I remind you, sir, that I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is? I prefer to watch the whole espionage/secret agent stuff in the cinema, with a date. I’m not offended by leading a mundane life as you’re so fond of calling it.”

And Mycroft can’t force him to change his mind, save by publicly acknowledging him as his son. _That_ would force Ianto out of the shadows; ironically, more due to him being _Sherlock’s_ nephew than by being Mycroft’s son. But doing so would be the surest thing for Mycroft to lose Ianto entirely, and Ianto knows that his father wouldn’t even consider taking such a risk.

And so they come to draws, once again. Mycroft stands up and walks over to the fireplace, his jaw set hardly.

“I believe we should change the subject – now,” he says flatly and glares at Billy the Skull.

“All right,” Ianto pauses for a moment. “Why did you lie to Sherlock?”

“I didn’t!” Mycroft protests indignantly but Ianto presses on.

“Yes, you did, and we both know it; and so does, apparently, Sherlock. You _are_ lonely, sir; now that Jack’s gone more so than before. I wish I could do something about it but…”

“That would be… scandalous,” Mycroft finished for him.

Ianto is as loyal and helpful as any son can be who’s met his father at the age of nineteen for the first time. But he’s still Mycroft’s son, which means he cannot fill the empty place left by Captain Harkness.

Not that there had been anything even remotely romantic between Mycroft and his chief bodyguard. It was simply a thing of convenience. But Mycroft, weighed down by his steadily growing responsibility for Queen and country, needed to have the control wrestled from him time and again in order to be able to shut down. Captain Harkness provided him with a much-needed outlet by shagging him within an inch of his life in irregular intervals.

It was nothing personal. Were Mycroft interested in women, it would have been Anthea or Tish Jones. Somebody he knew he could trust enough to let his walls down in their presence. Since he’s exclusively gay in these days – has actually always been, save for his single, ill-fated attempt at a heteronormative lifestyle that has led to Ianto’s existence – Captain Harkness stepped into the role. It was a simple, mutually satisfying arrangement.

But then Mycroft had to allow Captain Harkness to infiltrate the terrorist underworld because there simply wasn’t anyone else he could trust completely – and he wouldn’t let Ianto go, even though this was one of those rare times when Ianto actually volunteered – and now he _is_ lonely again. And there’s nothing Ianto – or indeed any blood relative – can do to help out.

That doesn’t mean Ianto won’t have to try, though.

He walks over to his father and lays a comforting hand on one tense shoulder.

“You should allow yourself to grieve, you know,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft quotes his favourite (and most over-used) phrase.

“No,” Ianto agrees. “But it does make you human. Nothing wrong with _that_ , either, no matter what posh crap Lady Violet might have fed you when you were young and easily impressed.”

He seriously doubts that his father was ever easily impressed, even as a child, but he can’t resist the small joke and is glad to see the barely visible upward turn of the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

“Mummy wasn’t big on this caring lark,” Mycroft agrees.

Ianto snorts. “I reckon that’s the understatement of the century. Well, she’s _wrong_. I cared for a _lot_ of people in my life and yes, losing them did break my heart every time, but it’s still better than leading a petrified life out of simple, plebeian fear of getting hurt,” he gives his father a jaundiced look. “Even at the risk of offending you terribly, I do care for you, too, you know.”

Something visibly softens in Mycroft, although it only manifests in his eyes that become suspiciously bright all of a sudden.

“Thank you, my boy,” he replies, and for this one time Ianto doesn’t protest.

~The End – for now~


End file.
